


Wynflaed and Gilda

by slowdissolve



Category: Original Work
Genre: Environmentalism, F/F, Feminism, Lesbians, Neo-Paganism, Paganism, soft
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-14
Updated: 2020-02-14
Packaged: 2021-02-28 05:15:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,046
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22719763
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/slowdissolve/pseuds/slowdissolve
Summary: Based on a tumblr post.A young woman in pre-Christian northern Europe is the student of a wise woman, and grows to see the world change. She serves the goddess of nature.
Kudos: 17





	Wynflaed and Gilda

I.

A girl named Gilda lived in a village, as most of her time and place did, in a place with low rolling hills covered with trees and fields.

She was born in a different place, which she scarcely remembered; her mother, whom she no longer could picture in her mind, had long ago given her to a woman in this village.

She was raised by this woman, who was not cruel or mean, but who was also not given much to showing affection with hugs or kisses. The woman was often busy, working, making things for other people in the village and on the farms which were under the protection of the noble of the region. Gilda had never met the noble, but she'd seen him and his family one time and another at the fairs which would happen in the summer.

The older woman, whose name was Wynflaed, taught Gilda all manner of things, about plants, roots, berries, seeds, and leaves. She taught her the names of the trees, how to know each from each by their foliage, bark, and nuts, the way they twisted or grew straight and tall. She knew about the vines and how they crept, the thorns that protected the flowers and fruits.

She also knew how to collect honey, how to know which mushrooms were sweet and which were deadly, and which would cause visionary dreams.

She knew many small animals' and birds’ names, where they burrowed, and which they feared, whether fox or snake or hawk.

Wynflaed began to teach Gilda these things from the very day that she was given to her. At first, she had the young one sweep the floors and the threshold. She had her take the ashes from the hearth, to store for making soap, and to bring twigs and sticks to start the fire.

Then she taught her to clean the dishes and sort them, to make the beds, to straighten the table, and how to cook simple meals.

And in the evening, when the meal was done, but the sun was still high in the summertime, she showed her flowers, pretty petals in many colors, and helped her name each. In the winter she taught her to sew, or to sharpen knives, or to carve, or make pots from clay.

She was not harsh in her training, but she was firm, and Gilda was quick to pick up things and pleased when she was right. If Gilda did not feel like working, Wynflaed would stop and give her only a stern look, until Gilda became ashamed and came back to her chores. Yet it was not all drudgery; sometimes Wynflaed would join her for a game, or to swim, or tell her stories, to keep her spirits up.

She watched Wynflaed give things to the other villagers and farmers, sometimes for coin, and sometimes for things like eggs or milk or cheese. Everything the two needed was given to them in exchange for the small packages Wynflaed prepared, and she listened sometimes to the instructions she gave in a low voice to them.

Gilda lived a good life with Wynflaed, and she knew it; she saw the villagers and their children, sometimes sick, often sad. Children were warned to keep clear of the wise woman, and they feared her and ran off when she tried to play with them, but Wynflaed was always there to tell her a new lesson that would draw her mind away, and the knowledge she gained never failed to make her feel strong and smart.

Over the years, Gilda began to understand how each of the growing things of the earth were part of the greater whole, and she the more she learned, the greater awe she had for the goddess that Wynflaed said was to thank for their making and growing. To nurture the growing things, and harvest them responsibly, was to worship the goddess, she said; but if she spoke to the goddess, the magic was stronger and the medicines more effective.

She’d never seen the goddess, so she was strangely skeptical of this last thing Wynflaed told her, but she dared not second-guess the woman, who was so often right about so many things. But to communicate with a goddess? Surely no ordinary human would be able to approach such power and live to tell the tale. 

She had doubts, but kept them to herself.

Occasionally Wynflaed would go off into the forest; sometimes she would have Gilda follow her with a basket, but sometimes she would tell Gilda to stay home and grind roots or leaves, or do chores, or fetch water for a great iron cauldron that was kept by the hearth.

One time, when Gilda was just grown from a child to a young woman, Wynflaed didn’t return before dusk settled. It was spring, with new leaves just beginning to show on the trees, though the grass had come in green and tall. Gilda made supper for them both, and did all the usual chores, but still Wynflaed did not return. She swept the threshold clean, lingering by the door, watching as the sun went down. The leaves turned gold and then blue, and then the clouds turned from pink to purple to ash, and then the stars began to come out, one by one. 

Worried, she went back inside and threw another log on the fire she’d made, ate some of the food she’d cooked, and tried to concentrate on sewing, but every creak of the house’s timbers and every rustling of the mice in the thatch made her turn toward the door, but still Wynflaed was not there.

She went to her bed and crawled under the quilt, and watched the door, until she drifted off into an uneasy slumber.

She dreamed that she was herself in the forest, in the dark night. Fluttering wings and wind howling through the branches overhead filled her with terror. Above her was a waxing moon, with oily clouds sliding rapidly past. She wandered, lost, until a voice singing in the wind caught her attention. When she looked about there were only grasping branches and dark grey leaves. Her feet were caught in mud, and her arms imprisoned in her cloak. 

“I will call for you,” a voice said, and she looked up. On the branch of an old oak that jutted out into the sky, a woman stood, her long hair black and waving in the wind, wearing a gown so sheer that the moon shone through it. Her skin was pale as the moonlight itself, but her face was too hard to see with the light right behind her. A hand rose to wave at her, and she awoke to the darkened house, warm and silent.

In the morning, she began the day as she always did, by fetching water and sticks for the fire, making a pot of tea for Wynflaed. She ate a piece of bread that was still in the breadbox, and went outside to peer down the path into the village, and in the other direction, into the woods. Still she was not there.

And then she did not know what to do. Scared and alone, she sat in the doorway in the bright sunshine and wept.

Soon enough, she had no more tears to shed, and they hadn’t brought Wynflaed back, so she got up and decided simply to go on with her day as though she were there. Yesterday she’d been out to the meadow looking for flowers, and she could do that again. She dried her eyes with her apron and went out. She found violets, and saved some for later. She found dandelions popping up, and lambs’ quarters, and nettles.

Gilda took them home and prepared them as she’d been taught, drying the violets carefully. The dandelion greens would be a nice salad, and the roots were good for inflammation. The nettles were good for men who had difficulty passing their water, so she set them aside to dry as well. The lambs’ quarters might go in a stew later.

Now and again the villagers came by, as they had always done, and Gilda was able to figure out which preparations were whose, based on the packages that Wynflaed had taught her to make. Some asked for new preparations, and they all seemed simple enough, so she promised to make them for the morrow.

She went to the market at midday to buy more bread and meat with the coins she’d earned. Some asked her where her mistress was, but all Gilda could manage to say was a choked “Away.” When she returned, she put the things where they belonged, and wept until she fell asleep.

On rising in the latter part of the afternoon, she bent to the task of making the packages for the villagers from the morning, as Wynflaed had shown her so many times. She smiled proudly at how neat they were, and how the knots she tied were all correct for the contents inside. She turned to show her mistress, remembered that she wasn’t there, and the tears rose again. She fought them back.

She made the stew, she ate the bread, she sewed the patch on her apron, and she watched the fire. Having slept before, she was up late for a summer night, but before she went to bed, she went to the doorway, and looked out again, up the path into the village, and down it again, into the woods. The woods were dark and frightening.

Gilda went inside, and rather than sleep in her own bed, she lay herself down on Wynflaed’s, holding the pillow to herself and letting the scent of Wynflaed’s hair comfort her as she slept once again.

And this continued, doing what she’d been raised to do, gathering the herbs, roots, leaves, bark and berries, grinding and steeping and making teas, tinctures, poultices, and ointments, packaging and giving them to the people of the village, in the way she had seen Wynflaed do it, which was as long as she could remember anything.

Each night, in front of her fire, Gilda sharpened knives or sewed, or she simply watched the flames, aching to know what had happened to her friend, the only one who’d ever cared for her.

A fortnight later, when the moon had gone from a waxing sliver to past half full, the young woman huddled inside as a storm poured rain on the cottage. The fire seemed too small to shed enough light against the darkness, so Gilda lit several candles and placed them around, despite their expense.

In the wavering light, she did her best to fight the sadness that had threatened to drown her over the weeks since Wynflaed disappeared. She was angry that she didn’t know why Wynflaed had left. She was angry at herself for not having looked for her, for what if she had been hurt? What if she were dead now? As tears streamed down her face, she began to shout, wordless rage against the world. How could this be allowed? Wynflaed had taken care of her all her life, to be rewarded with a cold death out there in the woods? 

Or worse: Gilda herself had been as respectful and worshipful to the goddess as she could be, caring for the earth and nurturing as she ought, to be rewarded with this loss? What kind of goddess was this that did not protect the ones who worshiped her?

And then she remembered Wynflaed’s words: speaking to the goddess made the magic stronger. Was this a punishment for her doubts?

She went to the door, furious, to scream into the raging weather her words to the goddess. She would demand an answer.

Gripping the iron handle, she pulled hard and flung it wide. 

And there was Wynflaed, soaked to the skin.

Each was startled only a moment, and then the two women embraced each other, and their tears flowed as strong as the rain about them.

The kettle sang on a now merry hearth, and the candles danced in celebration. Gilda poured a fresh mug of violet tea for Wynflaed, and poured one for herself.

She knelt at her feet as the older woman sipped, wrapped in her quilt as her hair dried, her clothing and cloak hanging near the fire.

“My darling Gilda,” she said at last, “I am so sorry that I could not tell you before I left, but I knew that you’ve learned all I had to teach you.”

“No! Surely there’s more!”

“You‘ve cared for the villagers, and done the work for them and for the goddess. I knew that you would carry on. But I wish I could have spared you the worry.”

“The goddess,” Gilda muttered. “Is she even real? Did you ever see her? Why didn’t she protect you?”

Wynflaed had Gilda come up to sit beside her on her bed. She put an arm around her and pulled her close, putting her head on her breast. It felt so strange to her, as Wynflaed had never been the kind to show her warmth this way.

“Your fears are over, and you can let this anger burn away, child. The goddess is real, and I have seen her, and she’s spoken to me.”

“But where? When? I—”

“Hush, and let me tell you, my love.”

“When I was out two weeks just past, I sought to find the goddess, who’d spoken to me in a dream, that I was needed at home. But I knew it was not this home that I have here with you.

“Years and years ago, I lived far to the south, in a town at the foot of a castle. I was taught in the art of herbs and magic, in the way of the wise women, by my own mother and her mother before her. The man who begat me and my sisters and brothers I never knew, nor the man who begat my mother, for in the line of my mothers, back to the beginning, we have all been servants of the goddess. Our fathers were warriors in search of glory, or seafarers who did not return from adventuring.

“I was not drawn to those, however, or the farmers who tilled fields near the town, nor hunters, nor scholars, nor even the lord of the castle.

“My heart belonged to a girl, a girl of such beauty, made of light and laughter, that no man could tempt me. Her skin was soft and her hair was all curled. No fruit, no honey ever made was as sweet as her kisses. And she loved me, too, and sought each day to be in my company, as I learned the craft of my foremothers. I hoped that she would come to live in my home with me always.

“But she was noble born, and betrothed at birth to the heir of another noble house. I didn’t know this at first, but as the day for her to go to him drew near, she grew sad and the light left her eyes. When I pressed her to tell me the reason for her dismay, she told me of her fate, and I made a plan to steal her away before it could be done.

“I came into the forest, seeking a certain mushroom, one that would help her sleep, so that I could steal her away before the dawn. I found a glade where I encountered the goddess in her person. She was tall and fair and pale, but her hair was darker than the shade of the trees on a moonless night. She took me into her arms and held me like a child, as I have done for you just now, and told me that there was a task she needed me to undertake.

“And I wept, for she asked me to let my lover go, the woman who held my heart in her keeping. Yet this was the goddess I had been raised to worship, whose servant I was born to be.

“I went back to my town, and I was lost in my soul, for though the goddess had asked this of me, she hadn’t demanded it, and I was desperate to save my beloved. Yet I arrived too late, for she had already been taken up into the castle, and I was not to see her again. I begged the guards of the castle to let me see her, but they were charged to keep everyone away.

“The pain of this drove me to run, far and far away, north into the woods, until I came to this very village. A wise woman of great age and knowledge took me in, and showed me her craft, which was like but also unlike that of my own line. She knew of the goddess, too, and it was a comfort to find her, as I strove to forget my dear sweet girl in this new place.

“Four winters came and went, and the pain eased as I worked each day. The wise woman who cared for me passed into the halls of the gods during her sleep, and I was alone again, but with honor I took her place as the wise woman of this place, and the people have been good to me.

“In the spring of the following year, just as the violets were blooming, a woman came to my door. Imagine my joy when I tell you it was my beloved, with a young girl clinging to her. She was dressed in the finery of a lady. Yet her face was distraught, her eyes wet with tears. My beloved told me she had no time, for the guard was at that moment searching for her and the child. She had been sent on a mission to the noble of this region, the one you’ve seen at the fairs, to create an allegiance between him and her lord, and the child was to be betrothed to his son as a bond of that allegiance.

“She was determined not to bind her child to any man she did not choose for herself, as had been done to her, and asked if I would take her and hide her from the guard of her van. I cried that I would take them both in, because at last I had the chance to keep her safe with me, but she said no, if she did not return, war was certain to come after. She would take the child’s dress and tear it, and cover it with mud, and say that wolves took her.

“My heart was broken once again, but this was the plea of my heart’s keeper, so I helped her, and stained the tiny dress with blood, to enhance the illusion. And then she fled with it, after one last kiss goodbye.

And Gilda, my jewel, that child was you.”

“But Wynflaed, that was years ago! Why did the goddess tell you to return home?”

“She told me that my beloved was taken ill, and that if I wanted to see her one last time, I should go and see her. The world is changing, the goddess said, and a new religion is coming into the lands, one that seeks to push out the old gods. If I did not go then, I might be taken for a witch, and burned for worshipping her. Even my mother and sisters have gone into other lands already, because the priests of this new faith believe their god is the almighty creator, though they show him as an old man, and that women have little value but as property. They have gone to places that still believe in the old gods, to carry on the worship, and pass on her wisdom of tending the earth and its creatures, but now to keep it secret.”

“Oh, Wynflaed!” Gilda cried. “Is she… my… mother… is she yet living?”

At this, the older woman looked as old and harrowed as she ever had seemed. Tears brimmed and spilled once again. “No, my child. She saw me, and remembered me, but then she slipped away.”

Gilda strove to understand. She was baffled to learn that she was born a noble, and had she been raised by anyone else, she might have been angry at all the luxuries denied her. Instead, it was a woman she did not know who had died, and it felt strange to mourn her.

Wynflaed cried out, clutching the quilt at her breast. “Why did I have to lose her?”

Gilda could think of nothing to say, so she took the older woman’s hands, and kissed them, and held them to her heart.

The older woman looked at the young one, saying “And you, now you are her very image, at the age I first knew and loved her. But you are just a child. Her child, and now she’s gone.”

She cried out again. “Whose child are you but mine now? And whose mother is yours but me?

Gilda embraced her again, and Wynflaed took her in her arms, and they wept together, until the storm outside passed, and the patter of the rain outside lulled them to sleep.

II.

After this, Gilda called Wynflaed mother, and she called her child, and they went back to their lives as before, though Gilda took more of a hand in the preparation of herbs for the villagers and farmers. 

Their lord’s lands were not spared war, and from the south they came, with warriors and priests alike determined to pass on this new faith at the point of a sword. They besieged his castle and burned it, leaving it in ruins. The villagers, knowing their lives were at stake, accepted the religion, and built a church at the end of the path farthest from Wynflaed’s home. Gilda sought to stay on the good side of the priest, offering the new pastor a special tea one morning, after guessing he’d overindulged in wine the night prior. Wynflaed and Gildla were allowed to keep to themselves without interference afterward, and she and the priest were indeed on good terms. The villagers, relieved, did business with them as they had ever done. 

In this way, the years passed until Wynflaed’s own dark hair carried strands of silver and she grew tired easily. She finished passing all the knowledge she had to Gilda, including the words to say to the goddess, but they did this at home, by the fire at night, keeping their worship secret.

Gilda became the wise woman of the lands nearby, and she took care of Wynflaed as she had been cared for as a child, letting her nap at noon and making sure she was comfortable.

It was about this time that she went out in the Maytime, with flowers all about the meadow, searching for a certain bark. None seemed to be at hand, and she went further and further away from the cottage, until dark came upon her. She was no longer afraid, for she could build a fire to keep off wolves; and she knew how to be silent in the woods, if any man should creep up on her; and her knife was deadly sharp.

So she set up a shelter and made the smallest fire she could, for the weather was warm. Gilda gazed up at the sea of stars between the thick leaves of the forest. All felt strange. She knew that she was safe as could be, even in the black night of the woods, and the glowworms cheered her as well as any hearth. The air was intoxicating and she dozed, blissful.

In a dream, the woman, pale as moonlight and hair as dark as the leaves she slept under, appeared to her once again. This time she wore naught but a flowering vine, her hair braided. Gilda knew this was the goddess, and knelt at her feet.

“Go on, Daughter, when the morning comes,” the goddess spoke. “I am not far now.”

Gilda slept on throughout the night, peaceful as a baby, and woke to the first rays of the sun. Refreshed and curious, she continued her journey, going ever deeper into this forest, until she was far past where she’d ever been before. She made out a ruined castle far off, wondering if this were the one burned during the seige, but the ruins seemed far older than that.

She pressed on, looking for the bark, inspecting the trees and their leaves for the right one. As midday approached, she crested a hill. The path, usually clear, was suddenly blocked by bushes full of berries, but also full of thorns. The strange, intoxicating feeling came over her once again, and she knew she must push past the thorns to find what lay beyond.

She struggled, freeing her dress from the clinging vines, sometimes bringing a pricked finger to her mouth, tasting both blood and sweetness from the berries. At last, persistent and filled with the need to know, she broke through.

There was a glade there, the remains of a garden that belonged to the castle behind her now. Trees grew tall around it, and plants and flowers, and light shafted in from above. There stood a statue, covered in moss, with a flowering vine wound about it. It was a woman, tall and unclothed, her hair braided. At her feet were small animals, sleeping, and in her hand and atop her hair birds hopped and nested. Butterflies and moths fluttered in the light.

Gilda was stunned. This was a statue of the goddess in her dreams. But it was also the face of Wynflaed, obscured slightly by the soft green moss, but certainly her face. She was young and lovely, and now she understood why the woman who birthed her loved Wynflaed so, and left her in her charge. The serenity in her visage was Wynflaed’s, and Gilda dropped to her knees, and fell to worship.

“Mother,” she whispered to the earth.

“Daughter,” she heard, but dared not look. The voice was not Wynflaed’s, but a chorus of voices in perfect harmony.

She felt a hand on her shoulder, and deepened her bow.

“Daughter, rise up. I wish to embrace you.”

“Mother… Mother, I can’t. You are too great.”

“I am a goddess, but I am also a mother, and a mother holds her child to comfort her.”

Reluctantly she rose, but she could not bring herself to look at the goddess directly.

Gentle fingers touched her chin, and lifted her face so that Gilda could see. She felt a warmth fill her, and a gladness she had rarely felt. She could not resist putting her arms about the goddess, and felt herself lifted, cradled like a little girl. 

“My power is still strong, child, but I am entrusting you with a task. 

“The future brings change, and the lands on which you live will be taken by those who bring new gods. War has always been the province of men, but in the ages to come their violence and greed will expand to conquer the forests and the fields, to draw more from the earth with every year. They will take much and give little back.

“And in time, the earth will become sick, as a body who has worked too hard becomes tired and falls ill. It will become fevered, and the plants you tend and the animals of the earth will begin to die away. Men will find ways to prolong the harvests, changing the very manner in which plants and animals are created, and they will try to force women to give birth to children without concern for their care. They will deceive men, making them war with each other over control of the land and its gifts. When they have eaten every bit of food, poisoned the earth and air, and leave the sea choked with rubbish, many of humankind will die, as the fever rises. The wealthiest will try to protect themselves for a time, but it will not last, and the fever will end with the death of every human.

“But I know, child, that your kind can be saved, if only you will take upon yourself a simple task.”

“Oh, Mother, how?” Gilda wailed. “I can’t save humankind! Why me? I’m not important. I’m just one small person!”

“You are one who does what’s necessary, when it’s needed. This is rarer than you think. And it will not be you alone, child. I only ask you to do as you’ve always done, husbanding nature with care, never forgetting me or my creation. Waste nothing, eat your portion, but no more. Leave some of your herbs to go to seed for next year.”

“Mother, I do this already, and gladly. But what is your task?”

“Your task, my child, is to keep my wisdom safe and carry it forward into the future. In the ages to come, this god that men are bringing will compete with other new ones, but in the end no god but men’s own invention will be their almighty. But you shall carry my wisdom forward, and pass it to your own daughter, and she to hers, and hers to the next one, for as long as it takes. When the gods of men’s invention are unable to cure the fever, your daughters’ memory of my wisdom will be ready to repair the earth and make her green and growing once again.”

“It’s too simple, Mother. It’s what I would have done anyway.”

“You say that, my child, but it will certainly not be easy. Men will murder to get what they desire. They will make some of my daughters to succumb to their preaching, through coaxing and duplicity, or torture and abuse, or working upon their own desires. They will question their intelligence, take their freedom, undermine their confidence, deny their strength, and wear down their endurance. Many women will even partake in the rape of the earth with as much lustful glee as any man.

“You must keep the wisdom sacred. Keep it hidden, but make it known to those who want to learn in earnest. Promise to teach it in such a way that the daughters and granddaughters of your line remember their power. This will save the earth when it’s near the end. When it seems hopeless, those distant daughters of yours will still know me, and I will regain my strength, and they will be able to return it to its beauty and bounty.

“Even if they forget my name and do not know of me as the goddess, they will know of Nature, and they will know how to save humankind.”

Gilda trembled, and the goddess held her close, swaying.

“No man has ever touched me, and it fills me with fear that one should, Mother. How shall I have a daughter to teach?”

“Don’t be afraid, my dear one. My nature is change, but also the cycle of the seasons. I will come to you many times, in many ways, to give you my blessings.”

The goddess kissed Gilda upon her forehead, and set her back on her feet.

“When you return home, care for the one you call mother.”

As she said this, a cloud passed, and the light dimmed, and Gilda found herself alone, the moss-covered statue only a stone figure once more. The animals that slept at its feet had fled, and all was as if she had only had a dream, except that in her hands she now held the bark she had been seeking. She bowed to the statue again, and turned to make her way back.

The first stars were shining as she opened the door to the cottage, and Wynflaed was there, with a hot cup of tea and fresh bread ready for her. She sat in her chair by the fire, ate a little, and said only, “I saw the goddess today.”

Wynflaed nodded sagely. “I expected it. I’m glad you’re home safe.”

III.

Time always passes, and as before there were good days and bad, warm weather and cold, snows and rain and wind and sun, times of plenty and times of hunger, when their skill with herbs and roots and berries was in demand, as the people of the village fell ill with some thing or another. The village grew in size, more children were born than died, and they credited their new god with each as a new blessing. 

Winters passed, and Gilda grew into a full womanhood, and Wynflaed added more silver to her hair. Gilda became a good friend of the priest, who was kind and spoke often of love and rarely of damnation. Sometimes she wondered how he could be thus, when the goddess had described men as full of violence and greed.

He joked with her about being baptized into his faith, and she laughingly declined each time, though he insisted her life was the ideal of a holy woman. She thanked him for the compliment, and returned it, saying that if anyone would ever be able to sway her, it would be him.

Soon after, on a windy autumn evening, the harvest taken in and winter nigh, Gilda and Wynflaed dozed before their fire, their labors over for the day, when a hard knock on their door startled them.

She came to open it, and there at the door was her friend the priest, who only ventured this far from the church at night when the matter was urgent. Behind him was someone shrouded in a thick cloak, which whipped about naked legs and unshod feet. Gilda bade them come inside, out of the wind, and they entered.

“Mistress Gilda,” he said, “We beg of you a favor.”

“You need but ask, Father,” she answered.

“This girl is in need of shelter. I can’t keep her at the church, for I have my vow of chastity to keep, and the people of the village would distrust me if I took her in myself. Still, the people are afraid of adding a mouth to feed after this year’s thin harvest. It’s a hard world we live in, when we ought to give without expecting return, but fear keeps people from doing their duty.”

Gilda looked to Wynflaed. The old woman’s eyes twinkled with a slight smile.

“We will, Father.”

The priest raised his hands to cross them with a blessing, and thanked them, and strode back into the night.

Gilda beckoned the woman to sit next to the fire, and she came forward, and knelt down on the hearthstones, and warmed her hands.

“Do you have a name, child?” Wynflaed asked.

In a small voice, nearly a whisper, she replied, “Brigid.”

“Come, let’s see your face,” Gilda said, so she pulled down her hood, and both Gilda and Wynflaed were taken aback.

With hair as black as the woods on a moonless night, and skin pale as the phases of the moon, she might well have been kin with Wynflaed, except her eyes were a strange color, between green and grey, like a storm cloud. Wynflaed’s were a warm and welcoming brown. And across her cheeks and nose were freckles, such that her visage took Gilda’s breath away.

“How come you to our village?” The elder asked.

“I’m a slave,” she answered softly, as though afraid she might be heard. “I ran away.” Her accent was new to them, flavored with a distant language.

Again, the two were silent.

“My master’s a sea captain, and brought me on his voyages. I… served...” but her voice failed.

Gilda caught her breath again. The woman was beautiful, with a long, graceful neck, and smooth shoulders, though thin from hunger; but her face was so frightened and sad, she felt an urge to take her in her arms and kiss all the pain away. Such a thing Gilda had never felt before.

Brigid said that the priest had fed her, and given her the cloak. “But if you leave me a space on the hearth to sleep I’ll be the gladdest in all the world, and I promise to work my fingers to the bone for you if only you’ll let me stay.”

“We can do better than let you sleep on the floor like a dog,” Wynflaed said. “Gilda, come and share my bed. Let her have yours, and we shall see what is necessary in the morning. Or…” she said, slyly, “would you rather share your bed with her?” She winked at Gilda.

Gilda flushed hot, for somehow Wynflaed had read her thoughts, though she fought herself to push them away.

“Grandmother,” Brigid bowed on her knees, low on the hearth, “you deserve a comfortable bed all your own, without being crowded by a sack of bones like me.” She looked up at Gilda, pleading. “And yet it would be a great gift to be warmed by someone as kind as you.”

“Settled it is, then,” Wynflaed laughed, her eyes bright. 

That first night was restless, as it seemed neither could sleep, Brigid struggling with her memories and Gilda with her imagination; they lay back to back for a time, until Gilda heard her weeping, and turned to put a comforting arm around her. Brigid then sobbed the more, and curled herself into her embrace, and the seed planted in Gilda’s heart took root.

As the winter advanced, the weather allowed Wynflaed to beckon Gilda on a rare walk into the village while Brigid busied herself about the cottage.

“Our home is too small,” she said, as they walked along. 

“It’s only the winter keeping us inside that makes it feel so. In spring we will come out again, like the badger.”

“In the summer we will be four, Daughter. We need more room.”

Gilda stopped short. 

“Have you not noticed? How often she’s not hungry? That she’s easily tired? That she’s passing water more?”

“I didn’t, Mother. Oh, why am I so blind?”

“Don’t blame yourself, Daughter. The symptoms are slight. She may be trying to hide it from you, so that you don’t send her away.”

“How could I ever send her away?” Gilda asked, too ardently, and then turned her face to hide the blush.

“I see that she holds your heart, in the way my love did so long ago,” Wynflaed answered, “but if you haven’t told her, she cannot know. Perhaps she never thought such a love could be.”

They continued walking.

“How will we be able to make a larger home, Mother? It would be a great expense, and we live with simple means.”

“You forget that you’re of noble birth.”

“I’ve never had need of that blood, Mother. It does us no good now, anyway.”

“We have means that I have set aside, my jewel. Your mother left you a dowry.”

Gilda stopped short again. “A dowry? For me?”

“Your mother did not know whether you would take after your father, or after her, but she thought to provide for you either way. When she left you with me, she left a sack of gold for your dowry.”

Wynflaed moved forward, on toward the village, while Gilda stood, taking the news in. She had wealth enough to grow their home, to provide for Brigid, and soon for Brigid’s child. They could raise her together, and she would pass on the craft that Wynflaed had given to her.

And then she realized that this was a blessing the goddess had promised. She would have a daughter of her own, and would teach her the wisdom, and she could pass it on, through time, through many daughters, until such time as they were needed to save the earth.

Her heart was light as she rushed forward to rejoin Wynflaed, and they moved on into the village.

Many hands made light work of building a new room onto the cottage, hands made all the more eager when shown the gold. Brigid insisted on handling a bright new axe and brought down a tree that Wynflaed carefully selected, and Gilda planted an acorn with an offering of thanks. Men with a team of horses brought it back to the cottage, and they cut beams that were strong and would last far longer than any of the three of them should live. Brigid delighted in the laying of stones under the stonemason’s instruction, and learning to thatch the roof with the thatcher from the village, and in the evening as the three sat together by the fire, she carved a mantelpiece for the hearth, singing songs in her old language. 

When it was finished, Gilda and Brigid moved their bed into the new room. The first night they were to sleep in it, the moon shone in through the window. Before closing the shutter, for the air was very cold, they looked out, side by side, over the snows covering the meadow.

“It’s as fair as a calm sea,” Brigid said.

“It’s as lovely as you are,” Gilda replied.

Brigid looked down, and then back to Gilda, her eyes pleading.

“I’m just a foolish sack of bones. You’re the fair one, with your pretty curls. You’re wise, and you’re clever, and you’re all I wished I could ever be. I was born a slave, but you make me feel like… like…”

“My beloved?” Gilda offered.

Brigid turned away, looking out the window again. “I was going to say free. Please, Mistress Gilda, don’t make a jest of my feelings.”

“Surely you know me better than that, Brigid. Have I ever made sport of you?”

“No. No you haven’t.”

“Then would it be fair to say I make you feel loved?”

“Am I?” Brigid asked, her voice low. “Can it be?”

“And wanted,” she whispered back. “For so long now.”

Gilda touched her face, softly as a leaf falling. And Brigid took her hand, and kissed her palm, and Gilda held her close, and kissed her lips.

“I’m with child,” Brigid warned suddenly, pulling away. “You’ll not want me, knowing that.”

“I’ve known for some time.”

“I’ve been shamed. The sailors. I didn’t want it to happen.”

“Do you wish to keep it?”

Brigid looked at her, confused. “Do I have a choice?”

“You always have a choice. One of the gifts of the goddess is a way to take back your body from what a man has done to it. But none should choose that for you. It is your decision alone.”

She frowned, thinking hard. “You would keep me if I chose to end…”

“I would love you either way,” Gilda said, and her heart beat fast.

“You would love my child too, if I did wish?”

“As my own.”

Brigid breathed deep, and Gilda stepped closer, to stand behind her and wrap her arms around her, putting her hands on her belly. She kissed her shoulder.

Brigid sighed. “The people of the town. They’ll call us evil.”

“Then who will make their medicines?” Gilda laughed.

“But the priest…”

“The priest is my friend. He’s not like most men, and holds better to his preaching than any of them. Remember, it was he who brought you to me.”

Brigid bit her lip, and she turned around. The sight of it sent a shudder through Gilda. 

“You do make me feel free… and loved… and wanted.”

Gilda closed the shutters and took Brigid’s hand, and led her to bed. They climbed under the quilt, and under cover of darkness, they kissed again, and the rest you need only imagine.

IV.

Brigid bore a daughter at midsummer, and they named her Roisin, which meant “little rose” in Brigid’s tongue. She was full of light and laughter, and her cheeks were full and pink.

Finally the priest convinced them that being baptized was the safest thing, as he feared the bishop might send another to take over the parish if he did not get it done; and Gilda and Brigid agreed, but Wynflaed would not. She was bitter that the newborn was to be raised in the new religion, but Gilda reminded her that she had seen the goddess herself and promised to raise her up. What was it to listen to a few words on a Sunday in a language she didn’t know? It would be time to rest and meditate on her promise.

And so they did, and it was easy enough to pretend; Brigid and she also easily led the villagers to believe they were like sisters.

Even so, Wynflaed took it upon herself to tell the stories of the old gods to the young Roisin, who listened intently. To her, it was all a great tale, full of color and magic, each word as true as the last, and she found no conflict between the stories of a distant desert land and the one where she herself lived.

As she grew older, learning the craft from Wynflaed and Gilda, she learned the difference between the new faith and the old; and she desired to learn it all, in earnest, as the goddess had said would happen. The line would be unbroken.

There is so much more to say, gentle reader, but already I’ve made my tale over long; it has been a joy to tell. Yet be assured that there were other adventures, more than the ones I’ve shared. From mother to daughter, whether natural-born or taken in from the cold, one woman to the girl whom she cared for, they kept the knowledge secret and safe, healing and taking in the motherless from villages far and near. The cottage added yet more rooms, and in time became a convent, and then an abbey, where young women would come to pray and live together; and like everywhere, some were cruel and petty, some lusted for power, but some were earnest and serious. It was to those that the knowledge of the goddess was carefully passed one to another, whispered in corners, or beneath quilts under cover of darkness.

For some women did indeed find love with others like themselves in those halls of prayer, and they were sometimes visited in dreams. As war and change swirled about outside, they grew green things in their gardens, and did their best to live lives of peace.

The age of Wynflaed and Gilda is long past, and our world now seems hard and sad, noisy and heartless, sorely lacking in green and peaceful places. The fever of the earth that the goddess said would come is upon us.

And yet, and yet— we still know of the goddess. There are still those who share the wisdom, one to another, as openly now as has not been done in many lifetimes. She is worshipped freely once more, though her strength is not yet fully returned.

The goddess was wise indeed, for she did not speak only to Gilda, but to others, in many places, and in our age we can speak to each other across vast distances, and share knowledge that none could hope to attain alone. 

From that time to this, their knowledge of herbs, flowers, leaves, roots, berries, bark and seeds have been the garden from which our most powerful medicines have grown. 

And finally, when a man questions a woman’s intelligence, takes her freedom, undermines her confidence, denies her strength, or wears down her endurance, there are powerful women, with the goddess inside them, who challenge those men, and say  _ No! _

Thus we have what we need to begin the task of making the earth green and growing again. We can do what is necessary, when it is needed.

The statue which Gilda found may yet stand, under centuries of leaves and vines, a mere swell between trees that have fallen and risen and fallen many times. It is a comfort to think that she may still be there, for some young woman, searching for an answer, to help her find love she needs: of mother, of daughter, of family… or of someone who shall have her heart in their keeping.


End file.
